


we never are what we intend, or invent

by devils_trap



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, i started writing for a difference fic and this Happened so uh...here, john/f!dep in this one though it's secondary, literally everyone/joseph seed if you squint and kind wiggle your hand in an eh kinda way, mostly i'm just all staci pratt all the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 04:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14324475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: The plan is this: (Puke in the bathroom before takeoff.) Fly the U.S. Marshal, Sheriff Whitehorse, himself and the two other Deputies, Hudson and Lewis, into the main compound for the cult known as Project at Eden's Gate. (Not piss himself when landing.) Acquire target: Joseph Seed, the cult's leader, also known as the Father. Extract the subject. Do not allow the situation to escalate beyond control. Return to the Sheriff's Department for booking. (Puke in the bathroom again.)It goes tits up right after Staci Pratt manages not to piss himself.





	we never are what we intend, or invent

The plan is this: (Puke in the bathroom before takeoff.) Fly the U.S. Marshal, Sheriff Whitehorse, himself and the two other Deputies, Hudson and Lewis, into the main compound for the cult known as Project at Eden's Gate. (Not piss himself when landing.) Acquire target: Joseph Seed, the cult's leader, also known as the Father. Extract the subject. Do not allow the situation to escalate beyond control. Return to the Sheriff's Department for booking. (Puke in the bathroom again.)

It goes tits up right after Staci Pratt manages not to piss himself.

It didn't _sound_ like a difficult plan, but the man who formulated it, U.S. Marshal Burke, knew fuck all about what was going on in Hope County. He strutted on into a situation he had no business messing with, preaching about Justice and the Law when his dick was really just hard for the potential bragging rights. Taking down a fucking cult in the year 2018? Think of the prestige, the power, the _pussy_ that would get him once he managed to escape this shit hole of a state.

Would've. Would've gotten him.

U.S. Marshal Burke is dead. Didn't quite manage to escape the shit hole after all.

Staci doesn't even see it happen, having been tasked with keeping the helicopter ready for extraction—with or without Joseph Seed—but when a single gunshot rings out from within the church, _just_ audible through his headset and over the whirling of the chopper's blades, he knows exactly what's happened. His hands tremble on the chopper's shifter, and for a split second something in his head screams at him to take off, forsake his team and get out of there as soon as possible.

He doesn't, but hindsight being 20/20 and all, maybe he should've. Taken the guilt and the self-loathing and the Internal Affairs inquiry over what he gets instead.

There are three, four armed peggies approaching the chopper. A nearby bonfire bathes their faces half in firelight, half in shadow, catches on the polished barrels of shotguns, the sharp points of yellowed incisors. Staci swallows hard, desperately looking from them to the church, them to the church, hand still trembling on the shifter.

One of the peggies opens his door, wind from the still spinning blades above them licking through his dirty black hair, his shaggy beard. He smells like smoke from the bonfire, like gun oil from the shiny, shiny shotgun in his clutches. There's a dark, almost black stain on the right sleeve of his henley, and Staci's pretty sure it's blood. He levels the barrel of his gun at Staci and hisses at him to turn the helicopter off.

Without the blades chopping through the air, the compound around them is silent as the grave, the world holding its breath before the plunge.

Then all at once sound goes rushing back in. There's screaming, cheering, singing, ringing through the country air all at once, from all around him.

Surrounded, in the belly of the beast.

The peggie still pointing his shotgun at Staci, cylinder not far from Staci's right cheek, motions one of his comrades forward. “Let's get the last little piggie to market, huh?” he chuckles, and Staci swallows hard, hands fisted, but lets himself be yolked out of the helicopter and onto the ground.

A third peggie then takes his service pistol and tucks it into the back of his pants. “Won't be needing this anymore,” he says, and he winks.

Addendum to the original plan: don't piss himself when taken hostage by the peggies.

The muddy earth beneath him squelches as he's marched forward. It's obscene sounding and strangely humiliating, but the peggies don't seem to mind it. Their boots and the legs of their pants are partially wet with fresh mud, partially caked with old, and they walk through the muck with practiced ease while Staci has to focus to keep from slipping.

Staci resolutely ignores the rifle muzzle pressed into his lower back, keeping him moving ever forward towards the church. He absently reads some of the graffiti on the buildings as he passes them, trying to keep his mind off the situation at hand, but it's all damnation and retribution and only serves to make Staci's heart ratchet up into his throat. He opts then to just study the mud beneath him and focus on lifting one foot and then the other, white noise buzzing in his head like the static snow on his abuelita's old analog television.

When they're but a few feet away from the church, its old scarred doors fly open and he's ushered inside. Stifling humidity assaults his senses, breaks him out in sweat, and the cloying scent of iron churns the bile in his empty stomach.

The doors creaking shut behind him have a terrible, heavy air of finality to them.

The pews are crammed full as Staci walks the aisle, and countless eyes follow his progress. The malice radiates off these people in waves. Staci's flight or fight instincts are screaming at him, clawing at his insides, _run run run you fucking stupid bastard._

Staci looks down, continues to proceed forward.

On the ground before the pulpit kneel his team. All save Burke, who is laying on his side in a pool of his own blood, face caved in. His nose and orbital sockets are gone, blown away, and his jaw is barely connected to what's left of his face, muscle cord thin and twisting as it dangles.

Bullet proof vests do absolutely nothing to stop shotgun rounds to the skull, as it turns out.

One of the peggies escorting him shoves the corpse over with his foot and forces Staci to occupy the newly vacated space. Still warm blood begins to seep into the knees of Staci's uniform, and something light _squishes_ beneath his weight. God he hopes it's not an eye.

Empty stomach or not the threat of vomiting is very fucking real.

A throat clears before him, and Staci finally, miserably, looks up. Eyes Staci can't gauge the color of due to sickly yellow lenses bore into his face, sizing up their newest addition.

Joseph Seed is forty-something, handsome. Hairline receding with the rest of his longish hair pulled back into a loose bun. He's shirtless and wire thin, covered in scars and homemade tattoos. His hands are steepled before him and his chin rests on the tips of his fingers, lips pursed as he stares and stares at Staci.

He shouldn't cut as intimidating a figure as he does, but there's a weighted sort of _Other_ that radiates off him just as surely as the malice does his flock, and Staci almost wishes for the malice because that he can deal with. What the fuck does he do with this nameless, terrifying _Other?_

_Don't piss yourself don't vomit God dammit Staci keep it the fuck together_

“Is this everyone, Sheriff?” Joseph Seed drawls, head rising and hands opening in a sweeping gesture to indicate the four on their knees.

“Yes,” the Sheriff replies, and even from the opposite end of their fucked up little conga line Staci can hear him grinding his teeth. See the vein in his forehead pounding beneath sweat drenched skin. Hysterically Staci wonders what his blood pressure's at, knows he's on a medication to keep it in check.

Hudson has murder in her eyes beside him, and the Probie—Stacy with a Y, though she goes by Lewis to limit the confusion—between her and Sheriff has tears in hers. She's so young, younger than Staci, freshly promoted to Junior Deputy only a handful of months before. Still bright eyed and bushy tailed, getting her feet beneath her. They could be friends if Staci lays off her, gives her a chance. If they make it out of this alive he'll go easier on her— _if_.

She doesn't deserve to be on her knees in front of what could very quickly become a firing squad.

None of them do, but especially not her.

“What you have missed, Deputy,” Seed pauses a moment to crowd in close, theatrically reads the name sown on Staci's uniform, “Pratt,” harsh emphasis on the final T as he returns to his podium, “is this: your United States Federal Marshal fought the will of God and was summarily struck down by His awesome might.”

Awesome might indeed, if God is going around firing buckshot into people's faces.

“What happens now is entirely up to you all. Each of you will have your own choice. There are few options left to you now, so listen closely.” Joseph walks back around from behind his pulpit to right in front of Lewis. With a long tan hand, he delicately urges her chin up. Wipes away one of her tears as it leaks from her eye. Pets at her hair. Like he actually is a concerned Father consoling his Child. “Join us. Free yourself of your past transgressions and live righteously among us. Or.” Smiles, saccharine sweet, at Hudson as he attempts to graze his fingertips on her cheekbones. His K9's seem to shine in the dim lighting as Hudson furiously jerks away from him. “Or He will strike you down. Just as God will not allow you to take me, He will not allow you to escape this.”

A choice that's not really a choice. A PASS/FAIL question on a test.

The static in Staci's ears roars and roars.

There are more people up at the pulpit, two men and a woman, and Staci blinks wet eyes rapidly, trying to clear them. They sort of just _appeared_ behind the modest preacher's post, or maybe in his terrified state his vision has tunneled and he could only see the Father before him.

Immediate threat, secondary threats.

Instantly Staci is aware of the relation between the men and Joseph Seed. They do not much look alike—Joseph tall and rail thin and golden, skin and hair, physically fit and aged well; the youngest (John, was it?) of a similar height but sturdier, more muscled, and dark haired - possibly more deranged if that dead eyed stare is any indicator; and the eldest (gotta be Jacob) tall, tall, giant and filled out, taking up so much space, shock of red on his head and his jaw with scars blighting what once must have been a devastatingly handsome face—but the way their gazes singe over Staci in the same cold, calculating manor, a gradient of intense, exacting blues, bellies the blood.

The woman Staci believes to be the adopted sister, Faith Seed (née Rachel Jessop), has a look about her that suggests sunshine, white lace and fresh flowers, though her eyes blaze with hellfire, a direct contrast to her brothers.

They study each of the captives on the floor, one by one, John then Faith then Jacob. Staci is the last in line for each pass, and each one leaves him feeling more bereft than the one previous. Unable to break eye contact with the Family, unable to do anything, really, like someone's made a voodoo doll of him and is manipulating him in the shadows.

John's eyes are electric blue and crackle with such mania that Staci's skin crawls and crawls the longer they are connected. He saunters down the line behind Joseph's back— and that must be another familial trait because Joseph has the very same gait, walks shoulders back and dick forward, exuding confidence—assessing them as if they were livestock. Licks his lips as he watches them squirm, spending the most time before Lewis.

Faith's skirt sways as she walks, nearly dances, down the same path John has just completed. She is beautiful and smiles shiny white teeth at them, eyes twinkling, but something is _wrong_ , something is _mad;_ overpowering sweetness to hide the taste of arsenic, and Staci itches all the same.

Lastly, Jacob.

Jacob, Jacob, Jacob.

Icy gray-blue eyes filled with cruel mirth and red red red everywhere, hair and skin. Full pink lips quirked up into the most frigid smile Staci's ever seen. So large before Staci that his form bathes him in shadow, blocks out the dim lighting in the church. His gaze seems to cut into Staci the most, and he finds himself holding his breath the majority of the time he's on Jacob's chopping block, trying desperately not to sway with it, light headed.

Jacob takes the longest time sizing Staci up.

He doesn't know what that means but _fuck_ it can't be good.

“I will give you but a moment to prepare your answers,” Joseph drones, and Staci's eyes drop from the Siblings to the Father.

“Now, let's talk about this,” the Sheriff urges. Sweat's pouring down his face, staining his uniform. Inching closer and closer to a heart attack, a stroke, not following his doctor's orders to keep his stressors at a minimum for his aging heart. So close to retirement.

A scoff, and Joseph crouches before the Sheriff. “Now is not the time for talking, now is the time for Deciding; for the time has come for men to act. To rise up, or to be struck down.

“Choose,” Joseph breathes as he stands, twists back to his full height like a writhing snake. “What will it be, Sheriff?”

_This can't be happening_

“Father, you know I can't—” The gunshot rings out loud and startling. Staci jumps even while knelt, eyes wide and blood sprayed onto his face. The Sheriff's body falls forward and his head cracks solidly on the floor. There's a smoking crater where the back of his skull used to be, blonde-gray hair sticky with blood and brain tissue.

_Oh God oh FUCK_

“You can, and you will. Keep that in mind, Deputies.” He moves in front of Lewis next. Touches her face, draws her chin upward. “And you, my child?”

After a moment's silence, she licks her lips. Straightens her back. “Yes,” she croaks, voice thick with tears and misery. There's chunks of the Sheriff's flesh in her curls, blood spray on her high cheekbones. “Yes.”

Staci's eyes flutter shut briefly, heart sinking, but he does not, cannot, blame her. He does not want to die either.

“Yes,” John echoes, voice breathy, reverential. He takes a step forward and stops when Joseph applies a gentle but firm hand to his chest.

With John held at bay, Joseph returns his attention to Lewis. He kisses her forehead softly, and the smile he gives her when he pulls back looks warm, genuine.

“Rook, what the _fuck_ ,” Hudson screeches. Her eye makeup, usually immaculate, runs inky rivets down her cheeks.

Disappointment shudders the warmth from Joseph's gaze. “Is that your answer, my child?”

Staci braces for the worst. He's known Hudson for several years now, fell into bed with her and her boyfriend on more than one occasion—Christ, she's one of two women with whom he's had sex and enjoyed himself—and his heart breaks with the knowledge that her convictions are too strong to submit to this. She's fiery and beautiful and—

“Fuck you, you peggie fuck.”

He still startles when the blood mists hot onto his face. It practically drenches him, the iron tang of it in his nose, God his open mouth. He and Lewis sob at practically the same time.

“Regrettable, truly.” Joseph takes a careful, measured step over the gore that is now Hudson, and comes to a stop in front of Staci. Warm, dry fingertips press to Staci's quivering lips as he takes in Staci's visage. They drag through the blood on his face as they move from his lips up, up, up to his temple, smoothing through the hair of his eyebrow. Flicks away something fleshy. “Choose, my child, and then we are Done.”

Dazed, Staci sways minutely. As if in slow motion, he looks from Joseph, to John, to Faith, and finally, to Jacob.

Jacob, who also caught some of the spray, now a new red to add to his collection. Jacob, whose narrowed eyes root him to his spot, flays him alive. Ratchets up the buzzing in his skull.

Over the static Staci can hear himself choke out, “ _Yes_.”

Jacob licks his lips.

The church is quiet then, humid air choking with the stench of blood. Joseph lets his fingers fall from Staci's temple and offers him one of his small, more genuine smiles.

Liquid heat courses through Staci's guts.

Returning to the pulpit, Joseph takes his white leatherbound Bible and holds it to his chest, right over his heart. Somewhere in the pews, someone is crying tears of joy. “Welcome, my Children, to Eden's Gate,” he says, voice crescendoing, arms flung wide, flock cheering.

Jacob and John, staring.

Lewis sobs quietly. When he cuts his eyes to her, she offers him a weak, quivering smile. She shuffles awkwardly to her side and offers him her hand, palm up.

He takes it. Clutches onto it like the lifeline it is, skin soft, unweathered, in his moist grip. Hopes she's drawing the same measure of comfort out of it that he is.

At twenty-six, Staci had expected a couple things to happen in his life: finishing paying off his car, settling down with the right man, buying a house with him and starting a family, shit like that. Normal, run of the mill stuff. Not joining a cult, _especially_ one that just murdered two of his closest friends.

But the will to survive throbs in his chest, in his head. Takes the reigns and urges him down whatever track he needs to make it to the next day alive.

“Leave us,” Joseph calls, and disappointment rings through the church. The Bible in his hands is raised and his expression hardens, and the dissenters are silenced. “Our new Brother and Sister will be with you all soon, but first I must speak with them privately, for this is a delicate time for them and they will need their Father.”

The pews are emptied quickly, and the bodies of the slain hoisted up and carried out. Joseph sets the Bible down on his pulpit and then rolls his shoulders, pops his neck, eyes closed. When he opens them, he gestures for Staci and Lewis to rise and take a proper seat in the front row.

Their legs are asleep, pins and needles from hips to toes, so they toddle, hands still clasped. They practically collapse onto the white bench, and while their hands finally break apart, their shoulders press tightly together when they are seated.

Staci's never felt so _old_ or so thoroughly wrung out.

“Welcome,” Joseph reiterates. “There is usually not this much excitement during the Joining, but some things cannot be helped.” He offers them a smile, and the crooked edge of it makes the sentiment fall flat.

They return it anyway. Have to, it's their part to play now.

He crosses the short distance between them and crouches down. Staci watches the light play in his hair as his hand and Lewis's are scooped up and placed back together. He laces his fingers with hers instinctively, and Joseph cups his hands around them. Brings their embrace to his mouth and breathes into it, warmth blossoming on their palms.

“Each Joining is unique and beautiful in its own way.” Talking to their hands, turning them over in his. He gently urges them apart and instead laces one of his hands with each of theirs, then lightly knocks their knuckles together. “The tumultuous nature of your arrival will most certainly effect your journey into the Fold, but I am confident that you both will rise to your challenges with proper guidance.”

“Yes, Father,” Lewis whispers, and her eyes flutter shut when Joseph raises their laced hands and gently brushes their knuckles against her cheek.

“Assimilation into the group is usually aided by the Chosen, select few handpicked by my brothers and sister. But in this case, due to the nature of your introduction, I believe we might need...” He pauses, snorts a little. His next smile seems a tad more genuine albeit still as jagged. “Stronger guidance. You will each go with one of my siblings, and when your journeys are completed you will be at one with the heart of our congregation. Does that sound like a plan?”

Another “choice” that's not really a choice; their last chance to attempt to back out. The only problem is, they're already on the edge of the cliff and there's nowhere to go but over.

“Yes, Father.” Staci's turn to answer, for Joseph to smile privately at him and brush their knuckles against his cheek. A shudder wracks through his body, goosebumps up his neck, down the arm connected to Joseph's.

From somewhere behind Joseph, humming begins. It takes a second for Staci to focus and realize it's coming from Faith, stepping towards them. She has a giant white flower in each hand, sweet smelling and velvet soft, stronger than the scent of the blood seeping into the wooden floors.

Staci watches with his mouth slightly ajar as she caresses his cheek with it, giggles as he leans into her touch. So soft and white, it seems to shimmer just out of the corner of his eye. When she places it in his free hand he twirls the stem idly, almost gets dizzy with it.

“Welcome,” she giggles, and when she grins at him Staci flushes, smiles for her in return and looks away.

Then she's at Lewis's side, gifting the same treatment.

Jacob and John melt forward from the shadows almost in tandem. They come to rest on either side of Joseph, John before Lewis and Jacob before Staci.

John is barely contained energy. It crackles around him, nearly making him bounce with it. He takes a few deep, deep breaths. Rocks from heel to the tip of his toes and then back.

On Joseph's other side, Jacob bores holes into Staci's face, his soul, not moving a muscle once he comes to rest. There is nowhere to hide from those stormy eyes, the knowing lilt to his slight smile.

Staci desperately wants to bare himself entirely, offer up his innards and darkest thoughts for Jacob's scrutiny, his approval.

Staci clenches the stem in his hands and silently endures thorns piercing his skin.

“I believe the pairings have been chosen,” Joseph says, his tone congratulatory. He slowly releases their hands and takes measured steps back, and Staci mourns the loss of his warmth. Feels startlingly adrift without the Father's hand as an anchor. When he's behind where Jacob and John stand, he places his hands on the smalls of their back.

John turns to him first, and their foreheads touch for a heartbeat, two, three.

Then it's Jacob's turn, and he inhales deeply until Joseph pulls back.

“I look forward to our time together, my Children.” And he gently urges his brothers forward.

**Author's Note:**

> this will more than likely get more chapters once i map it out some more :-)
> 
> title as per usual snatched from a song, this one "at the bottom" by brand new.
> 
> does anyone else like obsessively wonder what other people's deputies look like?! in this one, my lewis is kinda inspired by rhianna. dunno if that'll help or harm y'all lmao


End file.
